3 Revenge of the Crafty Corpse (4 page)

“You think Lucille has whipped the proletariat masses into rebellion already?”

“With Lucille anything is possible.” I flipped open my phone, expecting the worst. “Hello?”

“Mrs. Pollack, this is Shirley Hallstead. I understand you’re interested in the temporary part-time position we have open for an art therapist. When can you start?”

“When can I start? Don’t you want to interview me first? See a résumé?”

“No need. Kara vouches for you, and after all, it’s arts and crafts, not rocket science. You’re more than qualified from what Kara told me. How’s tomorrow sound? Nine-thirty? That will give us half an hour for paperwork before your first class begins.”

“Uhm, sure. Nine-thirty sounds great.”

“I’ll see you then.” And with that she hung up.

I pocketed my phone and looked up to find Cloris staring at me. “Are you quitting?”

“Of course not.”

“Could have fooled me. That certainly sounded like a job offer.”

“It was.” I proceeded to tell her what had transpired at Sunnyside. “That was the director. She wants me to start tomorrow morning.”

Cloris placed her hand on my forearm. “I know you’re desperate for money, sweetie, but are you sure about this? You’re going to burn yourself out.”

I sank down into one of the molded plastic chairs surrounding the break room table and stuffed the remainder of the brownie into my mouth. “The money’s too good to pass up,” I said, talking around chocolate, caramel, and marshmallow. “It’s only for a few months. I’ll manage.” Somehow.

“Famous last words. I’ll start researching asylums for loony craft
editors.”

“Make sure you pick one that allows care packages from sarcastic food editors.”

_____

Since God saw fit to make women the multi-taskers of the species (really, have you ever met a man who could do more than one thing at a time?), why didn’t He see fit to endow us with the ability to thrive on a mere three or four hours of sleep a night? Or create longer days for us? Or more than seven days in a week?

When you come right down to it, it would have been nice if the Big Guy had thought things through a little more before going on a creation tear. Sort of a Biblical spin on
measure twice, cut once
. After all, no one forced Him to get it all done in six days. He certainly wasn’t in competition with anyone else at the time. Think of all the kinks He could have worked out beforehand had He simply taken eight or ten days. Or a couple of weeks.

For example, let there be light, but hold off on the ones that cause melanoma. And we really could have done quite nicely minus the bed bugs and cockroaches. Not to mention the head lice.

I pondered this and more as I inched my way home from work. How do I juggle a second job on top of my already more-than-forty-hours-a-week primary job without going totally bonkers from sleep deprivation?

Or sacrificing my multiple responsibilities as a single parent?

Yet something else I could blame on my selfish Dead Louse of a Spouse. Thanks to Karl, one kid now never had a parent standing on the sidelines or sitting in the bleachers, cheering him on when both boys had games at the same time. And given their sports fanaticism, rare was there a Saturday or Sunday that Alex and Nick weren’t both playing in separate games on opposite ends of town. Or in some other town.

While I continued to ponder and cast blame, my stomach grumbled, reminding me that I’d skipped both breakfast and lunch in my mad dash to move Lucille from the hospital to Sunnyside and squeeze a day’s worth of work into half a day at the office.
Woman cannot live by coffee and Cloris confections alone, as much
as I try.

As I sat in bumper-to-bumper evening rush-hour traffic, tepid air blowing on me, I took a mental inventory of my refrigerator and pantry, hoping I’d discover enough leftovers to serve for dinner since I’d forgotten to defrost something that morning. The last thing I felt like doing at six o’clock on a Friday night was making a run to ShopRite before heading home.

Hell, if all else failed, I made a mean mac and cheese. I’m sure if I looked hard enough, I’d find a bag of frozen peas hiding in the deep recesses of the freezer. Cheese, pasta, veggies. Major food groups covered. But could I sell mac and cheese to the starving masses in the middle of a blistering heat wave?

However, when I finally arrived home, the moment I opened the front door, all thoughts of mac and cheese—with or without peas—flew from my thoughts.

three

I may have suffered
a lollapalooza of a triple whammy when Karl permanently cashed in his chips in Las Vegas, but there is one bright spot in the chaos that has become my life—photojournalist and to-die-for stud, Zachary Barnes.

The apartment over our garage used to house my studio. It now houses Zachary Barnes, my tenant. Zack entered my life within days of Karl’s funeral, after I ran an ad to rent out the apartment.

Even though attraction sparked from the beginning, fanned in no small part by the none-too-subtle maneuverings of Mama, Alex, and Nick, protocol dictated a platonic relationship. Karl’s deceit not withstanding, I was still newly widowed. For all I knew, those sparks shooting through my body could have been a reaction to the anger stage of my grief—anger directed toward Dead Louse of a Spouse.

However, two near-death experiences in less than five months made me realize I’d mourned Dead Louse of a Spouse long enough. Zack and I went on our first and only date so far three weeks ago. Where this blossoming relationship eventually leads is anyone’s guess, but right now I’ve given myself permission to enjoy the journey.

Who would have thought that a guy who looks like Pierce Brosnan
, George Clooney, Patrick Dempsey, and Antonio Banderas all contributed to his gene pool would be interested in a pear-shaped, cellulite-riddled, slightly overweight, more than slightly in debt, middle-aged widow? Certainly not me. But there Zack was in my life. And if that weren’t enough, the guy can out-cook Jamie Oliver, Bobby Flay, and Emeril Lagasse. All together. With one hand tied behind his back.

Yeah, he’s that good. And his cooking doesn’t hold a candle to his kissing. I can only imagine his other talents at this point. We haven’t taken our relationship to that level yet.

Zack had spent the last two and a half weeks on assignment in Madagascar. I didn’t even know he’d returned until I saw his Porsche Boxster parked in the driveway, and the aroma of something taste bud-seducing hit me the moment I walked into the house.

Mama’s never met a recipe she didn’t mutilate, and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches are about the extent of Nick’s and Alex’s culinary skills. So unless the food gods had sent me my own personal chef, those tantalizing aromas wafting toward me meant Zack was creating gastronomic magic in my kitchen.

“Hey,” I said as I entered the kitchen. Zack stood stirring something on the stove. Ralph, my African Grey parrot, perched on his shoulder. “When did you get home?” I asked.

“
Where the devil should this Romeo be? Came he not home tonight
?” squawked Ralph. “
Romeo and Juliet
. Act Two, Scene Four.”

Did I mention Ralph spouts Shakespeare? Only Shakespeare. And always circumstance-appropriate quotes, thanks to decades of residing in Great-aunt Penelope Periwinkle’s classroom. When Aunt Penelope died two and a half years ago, I inherited Ralph. There are times I would have preferred inheriting her cameo collection, but those went to Mama. At least Ralph is potty trained.

“A couple of hours ago.” Zack abandoned the sauté pan and greeted me with one of
those
kisses. He ended the kiss before I was ready and turned his attention back to the sauté pan. Mushrooms in a wine reduction sauce if my olfactory sense was any judge of such things.

“And after flying halfway round the world, you felt the need to cook a gourmet dinner?”

“I slept most of the flight.”

“First class, no doubt.”

Zack shrugged, which caused Ralph to abandon his shoulder for mine. “A perk of the job.”

Zack freelances for the Smithsonian and World Wildlife Federation, among others, and always negotiates first class accommodations into his contracts. He says it makes up for the days he spends camped out in jungles and deserts.

“Flora and the boys mentioned you were moving Lucille to rehab today. I figured you might need a little bit of TLC tonight.”

I glanced around, straining to hear any other activity from within the house. Aside from the unmistakable roaring snores of Mephisto, coming from the direction of the den, silence greeted my ears. “Speaking of Yenta, the Matchmaker, and her two matchmakers-in-training, where are they? The house is too quiet.”

Zack poured a glass of wine from the open bottle of Sauvignon Blanc sitting on the counter and handed it to me. “I sent them out for pizza and a movie.”

“My kind of TLC.” One of the first casualties of my recently acquired single-parent status had been
me
time. My life now revolved around everyone else 24/7. Having Mama and Lucille living with me only made matters worse. Both were high maintenance, each in her own way.

Zack tossed a bowl of raw shrimp into the sauté pan. The ensuing sizzle sent up a cloud of steam infused with intense aromas that sent my tummy into growl mode and Ralph into squawk mode.

“And you even made a supermarket and wine run?” The last time my fridge contained shrimp or my wine rack contained anything other than dust bunnies, I was still living under the false delusion of the American dream.

“If you’d prefer hot dogs—”

I held up a hand to stop him mid-sentence. “I’ll suffer through the shrimp.”

“Smart choice. You’re all out of hot dogs.”

I opened the refrigerator and took a quick inventory. Damn if he wasn’t right. The man knew more about the contents of my refrigerator and freezer than I did.

“So how was Madagascar?” I asked as we sat down to dinner. “Safe?” After Zack flew off, I ran a Google search, knowing little about the country except for the eponymous DreamWorks version. What I discovered—an unstable political situation with travelers being warned to exercise extreme caution—made me wish I hadn’t looked.

Zack is always flying off to iffy locales. For a while I suspected he used the photojournalism gig as a cover for his real work as a government agent. He assures me that’s not the case, but I’m not totally convinced. Spies never admit they’re spies, right? It’s against the spy code.

“Noisy,” he said. “Did you know there’s a lemur that sounds exactly like a police siren?”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“How did Lucille take to rehab?”

“Like a duck to an oil slick.” I expected the quick change of subject. Other than shortly after we met, when Zack regaled Alex and Nick with a tale set in the Guatemalan jungle, he never talks much about his work. Yet another indicator that sends my skepticism barometer soaring.

“I did meet some interesting old ladies, though, and bumped into a college roommate I haven’t seen since freshman year.” I proceeded to tell Zack about Lyndella and Mabel, and Kara and the job offer.

Zack placed his knife and fork on his plate and stared at me for a long moment before saying anything. Then in an extremely serious tone he asked, “Have you discovered a way to go without sleep?”

“You sound like Cloris. I’ll manage. It’s only for a few months, and the money is too good to pass up.”

“You could raise my rent.”

“By over a thousand dollars a month? You might as well buy your own house for what you’d be paying me.”

“I don’t want my own house. I travel too much. This setup is ideal for my needs, and I don’t mind paying more to keep it that way.”

It was my turn to employ a serious tone. “I appreciate the gesture, Zack, but I’m not taking any handouts. Not from you. Not from anyone. But especially not from you.”

“And why is that?”

I didn’t want to have this conversation. Not now. Maybe not ever. I’d gotten into my current financial predicament by putting too much trust in a man who supposedly cared about me. I couldn’t dig my way out by depending on another man who cared about me. What if he, too, someday stopped caring?

I stood to clear the table and didn’t answer until I’d turned toward the sink, shielding my face from Zack’s view. “I think you know.”

_____

The next morning Alex and Nick took the news of my weekend job with little complaint, probably because neither had football/soccer/baseball/basketball practice this time of year. Having recently turned seventeen, Alex had secured a job at Starbucks. Nearly fifteen-year-old Nick was spending the summer stocking shelves and bagging groceries at Trader Joe’s.

Both boys had expected to go on a month-long teen tour of Arizona, Colorado, and New Mexico this summer, followed by a family trip to Cambridge in late August to visit Harvard. I’d paid the deposit on the teen tour last December but was forced to ask for a refund in February.

As for Harvard, that dream had died with Karl. Unless Alex received a fully paid scholarship (and how realistic was that?), he’d be attending Union County Community College a little more than a year from now and continuing to work at Starbucks part-time to cover tuition, books, car payments, and insurance.

That was my next financial hurdle. At some point this year I’d have to allow Alex to get his license and would have to purchase a second car before next September.

“How will we get to and from work?” asked Nick as he scarfed down a bowl of cereal.

“Same way you get to work during the week. Pedal power.”

“What if it’s raining?”

“You wear your rain slickers.”

“Ah, jeez, Mom! You ever try to bike in a thunderstorm? We could get fried by lightning.”

“He has a point,” said Alex. “You know how fast summer storms pop up around here.”

“They can just as easily pop up during the week.”

“This was supposed to be such a cool summer,” grumbled Nick.

“Life sucks,” I said. “Consider how much more it would suck if you lived in Haiti.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“No, it’s supposed to make me feel better.”

I had to keep reminding myself that at least we still had a roof over our heads, and I still had a job. Most of the people in the world were a lot worse off than the residents of
Casa Pollack
. Most didn’t go on summer teen tours or attend Ivy League colleges. Most would be happy to trade places with us. I knew all this.

But I’d worked damn hard to give my kids the American dream. Karl had not only robbed our bank accounts, he’d robbed Alex and Nick of their futures. Alex deserved to go to Harvard. He’d worked his butt off, and I’d sacrificed being a stay-at-home mom so my kids could be whatever they wanted to be. That was the pact. They worked hard at school; their father and I worked hard to pay for
their college educations. Someone didn’t hold up his end of the bar
gain.

When Karl and I wed, I agreed to have and to hold, to love and to cherish, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health. Nowhere did those vows mention to trust blindly and without question.

Ay, there’s the rub
, as Ralph would squawk.

If only I’d taken the least bit of interest in our family finances. Had I not been so trusting, maybe I would have noticed that two plus two no longer added up to four. My trust in my spouse had made me his unwitting accomplice. I’d carry that guilt around with me for the rest of my life.

“Does Grandma know about this new job?” asked Alex.

I tossed back the last swig of my coffee before answering him. “Not yet. She’s still sleeping. I’ll tell her later.” I got up and carried my dishes to the sink. “I’m leaving. I walked Mephisto earlier, but one of you should walk him again before you leave for work later.”

“Your turn, bro,” said Nick.

“How do you figure that?” asked Alex.

“I walked him last.”

“Mom walked him last.”

“I mean last night.”

I grabbed my purse and keys, leaving the house and their bickering behind, and headed for Sunnyside.

_____

Shirley Hallstead was waiting for me in her office, the door ajar. She once again wore a power suit, this one navy with brass buttons, and once again not a hair on her head dared stick out of place. I also noted the Prussian blue Birkin bag prominently displayed on her desk. Most working women place their purses in a desk drawer or file cabinet while at work. Then again, most working women don’t carry around handbags that cost thousands of dollars.

I knocked on the jam, and she turned her attention from her computer screen, waving me in and directing me to the chair adjacent to her desk. “Give me a minute to finish this up,” she said.

While she clicked away, I surveyed the room. Dozens of awards and commendations—some for Shirley, others for Sunnyside—hung on the walls, along with framed newspaper clippings about Sunnyside and Shirley. There was also an assortment of framed diplomas. Shirley held a bachelor of science degree in nursing as well as masters degrees in nursing, social work, and business administration from Rutgers University.

Framed photos of her with various past and present local and state politicians dotted the shelves of a wall unit and lined the top of a bookcase. Not a single family photo in the mix. No husband. No kids. Not even a snapshot of a pet. It seemed Shirley Hallstead’s entire life revolved entirely around her career.

“I don’t usually work on Saturdays,” she said, finally turning her attention to me, “but I figured as long as I was waiting for you, I’d catch up on some paperwork.”

Was she blaming me for forcing her to give up part of her weekend? Hadn’t she requested we meet this morning? And if she’d only come in today for me, what was with the power suit? She hardly needed to dress up to have me fill out the requisite paperwork.

Speaking of which, she reached across the desk and handed me a clipboard of papers. “However,” she continued, “I’m happy to be here today if it means I’ve filled our staffing vacancy. I had someone all lined up, but she found a full-time position and bailed on me yesterday morning. You can imagine how thrilled I was when Kara told me you’d agreed to take the job.”

I guess she wasn’t blaming me. “But you have someone for the rest of week?”

“Yes.”

I was a bit puzzled by the urgency attached to filling a few extra hours of a non-critical staff position. “Surely, you could go for a few weeks without holding arts and crafts classes on the weekends.”